Against My Better Judgment

The first time I realised I might actually want a boyfriend, I was helping my friend Iman lie to her mother.It was a Tuesday afternoon, and we were sitting on the floor of her bedroom eating suya from a newspaper because apparently plates were for people with their lives together. Her phone rang.“Mummy.”She looked at me.I looked at her.She picked up.“Hello, Mummy.”Her voice immediately became three octaves higher.“Yes, I'm at home.”I started laughing.She kicked my leg.“Yes, I'm reading.”She kicked me again.“I'm reading, Mummy.”I was trying very hard not to choke on my suya.Then her mother asked, “Who is that laughing?”Iman looked directly at me.I shook my head.She pointed at me.I pointed at the ceiling.She mouthed, “Please.”I whispered, “Tell her I'm your lecturer.”She almost burst out laughing.“It's my friend, Mummy.”A pause.Then came the question.“Male or female?”Iman closed her eyes.“Female.”“Okay. Don't let any boy come there.”She ended the call and dropped the phone beside her.“See my life.”I laughed.“My mother thinks every boy on earth is waiting outside to destroy my future.”“She may be onto something.”She threw a pillow at me.That was how the conversation started. Somehow, we went from her mother's suspicion to talking about Nigerian men, and before long Iman was telling me about the things she had seen and heard from other women.“I think I'm done with men,” I said.“Done how?” Iman asked.“Completely.”“Who broke your heart?”“Nobody. I just have sense.”She laughed.But I had a point.We had all heard the stories. Men who wanted ambitious women until the ambition became inconvenient. Men who wanted traditional wives but somehow forgot that traditional husbands were supposed to provide too. Men who cheated and still managed to convince the woman that she had somehow failed the relationship.Then there were the usual questions whenever a man behaved badly.“What were you wearing?”“Why didn't you notice?”“Did you give him enough attention?”“Men have needs.”It was almost impressive. A man could misbehave and somehow a woman would still leave the conversation with homework.Iman was still eating suya when she looked at me.“So, honestly, do you even want marriage?”I laughed.“I don't know.”“Answer me.”I stared at her for a second.“Yes.”She stopped chewing.“Wait. You?”“Yes, me.”“After everything we just said?”I shrugged.I couldn't even give her a good argument because she was right. I had heard the same stories she had. I knew how easily a woman could become responsible for everything in a home while the man was praised for occasionally washing a plate. I knew how “being a good woman” could slowly turn into being endlessly accommodating. I knew that love could exist in a relationship without making the relationship fair.And still, I wanted someone.That was the part I found slightly embarrassing. I liked the idea of having a person. Someone I could call when something ridiculous happened. Someone who would understand why I was angry without needing a thirty minute PowerPoint presentation. Someone who would annoy me so much that I would threaten to block him and then forget to do it.I wanted the stupid parts too. The inside jokes. The random calls. Fighting over food. Somebody remembering that I said I liked something three months ago and showing up with it.I didn't want to become somebody's unpaid cleaner, therapist, chef, mother and motivational speaker.I just wanted to be loved.A few weeks later, I went with Iman to meet her boyfriend, Zubair. I had heard enough about him by then to have formed an opinion, even though I had never met the man. Apparently he was funny. Apparently he was annoying. Apparently he had once spent forty minutes arguing with Iman because she said shawarma was better than suya.This was important information.When he finally arrived, he came with food. He handed Iman hers, then looked at me.“You're the friend that has been insulting me?”I looked at Iman.She looked at me.“I have never insulted you.”“You called me unserious.”“I said you behave unserious.”“Same thing.”I laughed.He laughed too.Within ten minutes, the three of us were arguing about whether he had actually cheated Iman out of the bigger piece of chicken the last time they ate together. He insisted he hadn't. She said he had. I took her side.Obviously.He looked at me.“So this is how it is?”“This is how it is.”He shook his head.“Women supporting women.”“Exactly.”We all laughed.For the rest of the afternoon, they bickered over little things. Iman complained that Zubair was stubborn. He complained that she never listened. She asked him to hold her bag while she went to get something, and he carried it around without making a big deal out of it. At some point, she stole food from his plate and he just moved the plate closer to her.It was nothing dramatic.That was probably why I noticed it.Nobody was performing. Nobody was trying to prove that they had the perfect relationship. They just seemed comfortable with each other. They could annoy each other, disagree, laugh five minutes later and continue with their day.On my way home, I kept thinking about it.I had spent so much time hearing about the terrible parts of relationships that I had almost forgotten there were ordinary parts too. Somebody saving you the last piece of chicken. Somebody knowing you're tired before you say it. Somebody annoying you and still being the first person you want to tell your stupid stories to.I didn't want to be protected from relationships.I wanted to be protected from disappearing inside one.There was a difference.I didn't want a man who loved me because I could cook, clean, compromise and make his life convenient. I wanted to be able to do those things because I loved him, and still know they were things I was choosing. I wanted to have my own money, my own friends, my own plans. I wanted to remain ambitious and annoying and opinionated. I didn't want to slowly become a version of myself that was easier for somebody else to live with.Maybe that was why wanting love felt so strange to me. I wasn't blind to what could happen. I had seen enough women lose themselves in relationships. I had heard the stories. I knew why our mothers asked “male or female?” like the answer could determine whether the afternoon was still safe.But I also knew I didn't want fear making every decision for me.I still wanted somebody to hold my hand.I still wanted the random calls.I still wanted somebody to text me, “Have you eaten?” and somehow mean more than the actual question.I still wanted to fall in love.The next morning, Iman texted me.“I fought with Zubair again.”I replied immediately.“Leave him.”She sent a laughing emoji.Then:“I can't. He has my charger.”I stared at the message for a second before laughing.You people will not kill me.

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